Love is the Only Rational Act
by Etherealness
Summary: Minerva asked "What would you be doing were you not in Hogwarts?" She had expected the reply to be along the lines of sweets, sports, research or wild fashion. She certainly did not expect this. "Quite similar to your fantasy, I suppose. Were I not at Hogwarts, I would've spent the rest of my life with a dark, handsome wizards in a small stone cottage on the Iranian Plateau."


_Author's note: Even though he was obviously hurting from what happened, I always wish that Dumbledore's experience with Grindelwald would not stop him completely from having a romantic relationship. After all, he preaches the "power of love" all his life. To do otherwise would be hypocritical. However, I also expect Grindelwald to target whoever associates with Dumbledore the way Voldemort targets Ron and Hermione. One more reason for Dumbledore to finally confront Grindelwald, I suppose. I am hoping to create more parallels between Dumbledore and Harry._

_Anyways, hope you enjoy._

_(Don't own. Don't sue.)_

* * *

><p>February 1956<p>

"Minerva, what would you be doing were you not in Hogwarts?"

The new Transfiguration professor glanced at her boss, who was stirring too much syrup into his oatmeal. She pursed her lips together. While she appreciated his effort to get to know the staff, his questions could also be annoying at times – especially at six thirty in the morning.

"Well, obviously I would have eloped with a dark, handsome wizard and we'd live in a small stone cottage on the moors together." She replied with dripping sarcasm, not lifting her eyes from the Daily Prophet. "Quite honestly, Albus, I'll probably just become the spinster aunt to my brothers' children. Now, what would _you_ be doing were you not in Hogwarts?"

She had expected the reply to be along the lines of sweets, sports, research or wild fashion. She certainly did not expect this.

"Quite similar to your fantasy, I suppose. Were I not at Hogwarts, I would've spent the rest of my life with a dark, handsome wizards in a small stone cottage on the Iranian Plateau."

She blinked. Surely he was joking.

* * *

><p>March 1933<p>

The sun was setting, bringing the remains of the winter chill. The thick clouds lining the sky were lit aflame by the dying light. The vast expanse of wild blossoms in the valleys was stained a rosy hue. Albus was momentarily overwhelmed by the splendor of golden light bathing the Iranian Plateau. He stopped on the small, winding track to gaze around him. From all direction the bare mountain range spread. There were no creatures, nor trees, nor wisps of smoke from stone-made chimneys. He was the only soul beneath heaven. He would be the first and the last to witness the bleak beauty of this sunset. The sheer solitude of his situation struck him all at once like a punch in the gut. It was a hard blow that seemed to leaves echoes in the empty space inside his chest.

For months, he had wandered through the scarcely inhibited highlands and basins of Afghanistan. Three weeks ago he entered Iran via Pakistan. He walked with no particular destination in mind. Camping at road side, drinking from small creek, and eating what he could find or had packed. It must be a least a week ago since he last saw a human face, though maybe it was a tad longer than that. He had long lost track of time.

This was not the Grand Tour Albus had envisioned at eighteen. After Ariana died, he spent the first four years in Switzerland National Wizardry University with scholarships. The subsequent three decades found Albus working at several research institutes around Europe, before he began an apprenticeship – and later partnership – with Flamel. During this time he had gained fame and wealth. All these while, the void within him grew. As soon as he was able, he extracted himself from all that he had previously known and exiled himself into the Middle Eastern wilderness.

The last ray of sun had disappeared.

As darkness descended, Albus noticed something he did not see before. A small light was flickering in a distance, partially blocked by a thicket of bush. Eager to dispel the loneliness that grew more unbearable by each seconds, he quickened his stride. As he near, the light became firelight dancing in the window of a stone cottage surrounded a small but meticulously tended garden. To the unknowing eyes, the garden plants would appear to be common herbs, but Albus immediately spotted the magical varieties among them. He walked past the subtle warning charms and knocked on the wooden front door.

The doorknob turned as the door opened Firelight streamed from the room, casting a soft glow on the man standing in front of him. He was of broad shoulder, moderate height and dark complexion. His deep brown eyes gleamed as he glanced up to consider Albus, who stared back in return. Suddenly, the man burst into laughter. It was a laughter loud and rich, reverberating in the cool night air, a sound that Albus had not heard for too long. He had almost forgotten the contagious joy carried by the laugh of a man. It soothed the wariness in his heart. But the man showed no sign of stopping. He laughed and laughed, until he was leaning on the door frame for support.

"Salaam, my friend," he wheezed in Persian, body shaking as he tried to muffle the laughter. "My Arithmantic calculation said that a great gift would land on my doorstep. It didn't say the gift was _ginger_. Come!" With that, he seized Albus' hand and led him through the door. Human contact. It was another thing he sorely missed, though he did not realize until now. The man's hand was strong and callused with labor. He wanted to say that his hair was auburn, not ginger, but not knowing the word _auburn_ in Persian, he remained silent.

Before he knew it, he was pushed onto a mat in front of the fireplace with an order to make himself comfortable, while the man withdrew into what looked like a small kitchen. A part of Albus knew that he ought to stay alert. Even when he had stayed a night in Muggle houses, he had kept himself vigilant. Yet, somehow in this man's presence he just could not muster up the strength to be watchful. Perhaps he was truly tired.

The man returned with two plates of rice, flatbread, herbs and roasted lamb and a gentle smile. Only now could Albus get a decent look at his face. He looked no older than forty, though his eyes shone with wisdom beyond that age. "Don't look so contemplative, Ginger. You are going to eat up and tell me exactly how you lost yourself at my front door." And he did.

It was thus that he became friend with this wizard. At day Albus helped him to tend to the goats and magical plants. Albus taught him English, he taught him Persian. He made friend with the wizard's familiar – a phoenix, bright and beautiful as told in Arabic legends. At night, underneath the starry sky, they'd talk softly about Iranian cuisine, dreadful English weathers, magical properties of saffron, and anything that came to mind.

He always insisted on ending the night by reciting an Iranian poem.

At first, Albus slept on a small bed placed in the living room. As autumn grew closer, though, the nights became increasingly frosty. One night, as Albus was about to retire to bed, the door to the only bedroom in the house cracked open a little. "Albus, you'll freeze out there. Come join me." And he did.

His Iranian lover was anything that Gellert was not. He was mild where Gellert was dark. He was steadfast where Gellert was reckless. He was tender where Gellert is possessive. For four years Albus remained in that small cottage, living a content but secluded life. However, even the mountains did not stop the information from reaching them. It started with little snippets of words that came from his lover's friends. Then it became newspaper clippings of international headlines. Soon there was no more room for doubts. A dark wizard by the name of Gellert Grindelwald was rising in Europe. He was preparing for war.

That day, they did not work. They did not venture out of the house. They sat in front of the fire, the phoenix perched on his lover's shoulder, as Albus talked about Father and Mother and Ariana and Aberforth and Gellert. At the end of the story, both of them fell silent. His lover was the first one to speak. "Albus, I think you need to go. You will never find peace here while Grindelwald is at large." What could he have said in return? In his heart of heart he knew his lover was right, even though he dreaded to part with the stability and tranquility this little cottage afforded. They spent the rest of the night in each other's embrace.

When the sun rose atop the snow-laden mountains again, he was again standing at the front door. The two of them regarded each other. The sense of déjà vu casted everything he was seeing in a tragically lovely light. His lover was wordless as he handed over a package of carefully preserved food.

"I'll come back," he said, desperate to reassure both his lover and himself. "I will."

"No, Albus, I don't think you will. Promise me though, Ginger, that you will look after that phoenix when I cannot."

He promised. At this point he could promise anything, but he did not understand. His lover was a powerful wizard. In the quiet seclusion of Iranian Plateau, he would be safe from all conflicts. They shared one last hug, one last kiss. The stings of cold morning air on their skins were bittersweet.

Then he left. And the rest was history.

In the hindsight, he understood what he did not that morning. His lover was an Arithmancy genius, after all. He had foreseen both of their fates while Albus was still clinging toward the illusions of happily ever after. When the phoenix flew into his office, one and a half years later, he understood. He saw in the phoenix's arrival Gellert's fury and his lover's demise. The phoenix was crying.

* * *

><p>June 1996<p>

"I DON'T CARE!" Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. "I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!"

"You do care," said Albus. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. "You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it."

He completely understood.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

From Lord Tennyson's poem _In Memoriam:27_, 1850


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